Rain
by The Hmuff
Summary: "There was more than one kind of fall..." After his fall, Sherlock returns to Baker Street, only to find out that no one has heard from John Watson in months. He finally sets out to find him, but is scared of what he might discover...
1. Rain

**Rain**

It was always raining in London.

The day that Sherlock Holmes returned to the city certainly wasn't an exception to the rule. Dark, heavy rainclouds were hanging over London, sending bitter, freezing showers down to the earth, when Sherlock, dressed in his long black trenchcoat, stepped out of a taxi on Baker Street and the corner of Belgrave Avenue. He strode rapidly, jade-green eyes stony with intent, making his way through the rain, through the cold, through the puddles in the sidewalk, up to the grey residential building and to the 221b Baker Street.

It was exactly one year and eight months since the fall. The fall which had allegedly smashed his skull, stopped his pulse, and generally made everybody believe he would never return. It had left them with no doubts. Nobody had believed that anybody—even Sherlock—could cheat death.

Pausing for just a moment to look up at the iron-grey sky, he remembered how there had been rain at his funeral. What had looked like tears trickling down people's faces hadn't been tears at all—just rain.

Except maybe John.

John didn't know Sherlock was coming back; only Mycroft had known. Sherlock's brother had seen to it that the flat at 221b Baker Street had remained intact throughout his absence: everything was the exact same way it had been when he'd last seen it. Mrs Hudson had taken impeccable care of it. She, Sherlock reflected, was a good landlady. Had he appreciated it before? Probably not. He certainly hadn't told her anything of the sort. But when he walked through the door, and she was there, and looked so glad to see him, he felt like he should have said something, at some point, by way of thanks. Especially when he considered the reaction that he had gotten from others. Alarm— fear—scepticism—anger, even. All things he had seen before in people's accusing little eyes. He never cared about their opinions then, and wouldn't care about them now. Dealing with them was easy.

Dealing with himself, however, was harder.

There was something that tormented him, kept him up at nights. No matter how much he tried to take his mind off of it, he couldn't; it was always there. It was a thought that had invaded his brain, slowly seeping in and poisoning him as he wandered the world, enjoying the freedom of having everybody important believing he was dead. At first, the thought would just trouble him for a moment, leaving him shaken as he hiked in remote Indian lands, or wandered along China's southern coast. But each time it came to him, it was stronger, and more disquieting, and he would be forced to close his eyes and breathe deep, struggling to cope with the rush of fear and emotion, emotion so complex and deep he'd never felt anything like it before. And suddenly, having everybody believe he was dead wasn't so freeing anymore. In fact, it was sickening, and downright terrifying.

And all because of one word:

_John._

Where was he? What had happened to him?

Sherlock didn't know. And nobody would tell him. Silence was frightening, because silence was a new feeling. Before the fall, people had been constantly shouting in Sherlock's face, sending him angry anonymous emails, whispering behind his back, but now everybody seemed strangely mute. He was forced to present the same question again and again and again, over and over, until someone finally answered:

"He just couldn't handle it, Holmes."

And another:

"He had already endured so much…"

And a third:

"After a while, he just… disappeared. Just… gone. Three months ago Molly Hooper found him in the hospital, and he—he— Molly tried to call for help, she really tried, but he ran, jumping from the window…"

"No one knows what happened after that. Nobody even knows if he's alive or dead. He's just… gone."

And Sherlock knew he was falling.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Credit goes to Marygold for writing this awesome story; I just translated it from Finnish (and spent hours editing it :P)

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, and asked permission before using the story.

So, **review **if you liked! :D


	2. Rain, pt 2

**Rain, pt 2**

There was more than one kind of fall.

After a year and eight months of being gone, Sherlock Holmes felt as if London, his home for as long as he could remember, was dropping from beneath his feet. Each step felt like the pavement was collapsing beneath him. He wasn't falling like the rain fell, from a definite point, flying towards a definite destination. Sherlock was living a falling dream. He didn't know when he had begun to fall; all he knew was that he just kept plummeting further and further, feeling sicker and sicker with each moment, and he somehow knew that he was never, ever going to reach bottom.

Time passed. He felt each second, slow and sickening, like the thud of dated machinery; at the same time, days would fly by meaningless, gone before he even realised they had come.

The London Eye was glowing on the Thames River, golden light filtering through the rain and the thick mist, when Sherlock Holmes stepped in from the torrential rain on New Year's Day and entered his flat. He shook off the rain from his coat and hung it up, rubbing his hands together for warmth. It was comfortable inside; it was clean, the lights were all on, dinner was in the oven; everything was warm and cosy. The curtains were drawn, to block out the sight of the rain; it was almost as if the outside world didn't exist. As if there was only this: this make-believe place, a place that looked safe and familiar, where pretending to be happy was easy, almost natural. Mrs Hudson had put on a kettle of tea; she talked to Sherlock (and herself, when Sherlock wasn't listening), and pottered about, polishing silverware, wiping dust from furniture, rearranging couch cushions. It felt like a home. But no matter what, 221b Baker Street clung to a terrible, oppressive feeling of emptiness. The absence of a third person tore at the feeling of home that the flat used to have. It tore at Sherlock's heart.

"I should go look for him," he quietly announced one March afternoon, as he cradled his violin in his hand and gazed out of the window on the street, at the rain and the countless black umbrellas.

Mrs Hudson assured him that they would hear news of John soon.

His brow furrowing slightly, Sherlock rested his fingertips against his forehead and continued, "But I'm afraid."

Mrs Hudson was speechless.

Dropping his head into his hands, he could feel his heart throbbing again, with those increasingly familiar fears and emotions that had begun after the fall. They coiled inside of him, filled him, like the cold London air; they washed over him, like the rain. Leaving him cold and empty.

"I've been waiting for almost two years, Mrs Hudson." His throat felt strangely tight, and he was having trouble forcing the words out. "And I'm scared. I'm scared to look for him. To see what I've done. I hate myself—I _hate _myself— because every single day, I just sit here and wait. Wait to hear that he's dead. How pathetic. How pathetic… "

And with that, he raised the violin beneath his chin, closed his eyes, and began to play.


	3. Falling

**Falling**

Falling was just like flying, only it had a destination.

So maybe that meant that John wasn't falling at all. He didn't have any destination, so maybe he wasn't crashing towards the ground. Maybe he wasn't going to hit the pavement. Maybe his skull wouldn't crack. Maybe his blood wouldn't spill out over the ground.

No—it was only his mind that had cracked. It was only his heart that had burst, breaking open and drenching his entire being with red, sticky warmth.

John stared out at the sun, slowly drifting down towards that faint red line that separated the sea from the sky, and put his fingers to his forehead, feeling the creases gathered beneath them.

_Sherlock Holmes stood on a wall, _he thought, almost mockingly, but too tired and bitter to be truly mocking, _Sherlock Holmes had a great fall. All Lestrade's coppers and all Mycroft's men, couldn't put Watson together again…_

Kicking the sand beneath his feet, he cursed silently and shook his head.

He really had broken. John had never hit the pavement—there was no pavement to hit— but he had broken all the same.

Maybe when…when _he _had hit the ground. Maybe that was when everything had shattered. London. His heart. The world. Everything. All gone. Splattered over the concrete.

He didn't want this. He didn't want to be flying forever. He wanted to land. He didn't care how much it hurt. He just wanted the ground. He wanted something real, something tangible. He wanted— he wanted—

_Don't think his name_. _It'll only hurt you more._

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stared out at the water, at the curl of sand reaching into the red waves. He could feel his throat tightening, but forced it away.

If only he was falling...

* * *

**Author's Note: **While parts 1 and 2 were translated from Marygold's story, this one is my own work. Review if you liked!


	4. Eternity

**Eternity**

Falling was just like flying, only it had a destination.

So maybe that meant that Sherlock was falling.

_Yes,_ he thought, as he watched the sun slowly slip into the blood-red sea. _I'm still falling._

Part of him never wanted to hit bottom. He wanted to keep on falling, with the wind against his face, holding on to the vague hope that hitting the ground wouldn't hurt as much as he had thought it might.

But you couldn't just keep falling, could you?

He took a step towards the beach, but stopped before his feet had even touched the sand. But something stopped him, and instead, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone.

_Where are you?  
-SH_

The message sent. Time passed slowly, painfully slowly. There was no sound, nothing except the screech of seagulls and the distant crashing of waves on the shore.

And then his phone buzzed in his palm.

Sherlock's heart stopped. With shaking hands, he accessed the message button, tapped it with his finger...

_Coming.  
-JW_

It had only taken a second to read the two words.

But as Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket, and heard the sound of footsteps through the sand, running towards him, it felt like eternity.


End file.
